An angel in the attic
by Quiet Anticipation
Summary: He's so lonely for so long.


**Hi everyone, **

**I own nothing at all...**

**Just a quick word to say that this takes places year after the film. All reviews are welcome, please be honest!! :c) Thanks x**

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He raced toward her, the blades flashing and winking in the light provided by the single moon lit window in the slanting roof.

She screamed; first in terror, then in pain as the sharp metal made contact with her delicate skin.

He'd meant only to cut her arms a bit, scare her a little with superficial injuries; but in a frantic jerking motion he'd caught the bridge of her nose and scratched an oozing line of blood under one eye.

It didn't really matter, he supposed as he wielded the dangerous weapons in the darkened attic, nothing really mattered.

The metal gleamed frighteningly in the dark, splattered slightly with her blood as he sliced into her bare shoulder, and then again, and then again.

He wasn't doing this because he was evil; he wasn't even doing this because he was confused – in fact, the single thought was screaming through his mind like a freight train was the clearest he'd ever experienced: 'Physical scars will heal. Emotional scars don't.'

He had to scare her into leaving; frighten her so badly that she never returned, ever.

He just couldn't let himself get close to her. Even though he'd never met the girl, he knew exactly who she was.

She had to go before he fell in love with her, and she for him, because eventually, both of them would feel pain beyond the realms of bloody cuts.

"Stop, stop!" she sobbed, raising both arms up as if to shield herself.

The cowering position made old and painful memories flood back to him. He'd hated the way people feared his appearance, when, inside of his freakish exterior he was helpless and vulnerable.

His beautiful blonde angel hadn't blanched at the sight of him, yet, the girl in front of him, who could easily pass for his angel's mirror image, trembled at his mercy.

The mirror image hadn't been afraid of his appearance either. Just what he'd done to her.

A sickly feeling of raw shame made a knot in his stomach and twisted and tightened.

This wasn't who he was.

"I'm sorry…" he trailed off, lowering the glistening blades with abundant care. He opened and closed his mouth slightly as if his silver scarred lips would find her name.

He knew exactly who the girl, face wet with tears and blood, was; he would have recognized her a mile away, despite never having met her before.

He was so familiar with that particular shade of childish blonde, the snowy complexion of her skin, the exquisitely defined bow of her lips.

He knew her so well, but not her name.

At his apology, spoken with a wavering soft voice that didn't seem to match his looks – exactly the way hr grandmother had described it- she looked up and met his eyes for the first time.

Her dark eyes that contrasted crazily with her milky skin and light golden halo of hair, connected with his own dark coals of eyes that too stood out against his shockingly pale coloring; the meeting of their eyes confirmed an unspoken acceptance of his nervous apology.

"I only ever half believed my grandmothers stories, and I just had to know," quietly, she sat down on the dusty wooden floor, no longer afraid, even though he'd hurt her she seemed to understand why and knew he wouldn't do it. He could tell that she was determined to stay, no matter the cost later.

He smiled slightly at the mention of her grandmother. He thought back to when he'd known her – how long ago? He wasn't much good with keeping track of the time. Locked away, time never seemed to matter to him. Especially so because his own body was trapped in a cage of time and he'd never age.

"My grandmother told me everything, and the stories were all so vivid that I feel like I've known you forever." She said, her words were plain and simple but her voice was shy.

She motioned for him to sit and he obeyed, wordlessly, as she folded her legs beneath herself and kneeled opposite him.

She stared at him openly, not in disgust or repulsion, but in innocent awe that the character her imagination had conjured from her grandmother's description of him was so accurate.

The gentle dim yellow of the moon washed over them both, renewing and refreshing.

He blinked, stuck in his own incredible amazement; it was as if his angel was back from so many years ago.

Her voice shook with emotions she'd never felt before: "I love you, Edward"

Leaning close to him, she pulled her bleeding arms around his middle and pressed her face to his bony leather clad chest.

"I love you too" he replied eventually, easing his own arms stiffly around her body and keeping his wrists bent back, so not to harm her again, with his loathsome scissorhands.


End file.
